Painting the Strip Red
by whiskeyandnight
Summary: Cass and the Courier go out for a night on the town.


The elevator chimes out a _ding_ as the doors open and Arcade whistles lowly to himself as he steps out into the suite. He stops and cocks his head to listen for the shuffling sounds of his "roommates" over the constant whirring of the elevator shaft. He catches the faint humming of voices drifting from the kitchen and spins on his heel to turn the corner.

He's instantly greeted with the sight of the Courier's ass, where she's bent over in front of the open refrigerator that houses their respectable collection of booze and special variations of Nuka-Cola.

(At first, he didn't see the need to use two refrigerators. Then, he learned that the Courier is nothing if not a skilled scavenger; she manages to pick out materials need to collect food and drink from places Arcade's _certain _should have already been scavenged. She's also a chronic water-hoarder, for that matter.)

"Scotch, scotch, scotch," he hears the young woman mumble to herself. "I _know_ it's in here somewhere."

Arcade silently reaches over her bent form and taps at the full bottles of scotch that sit in the door of the fridge, lightly rattling them against each other. The sound makes the Courier jump, and she immediately whirls around. He doesn't miss the way her arm draws back for what he can only assume would have been on hell of a punch as she stares at him with comically wide eyes.

Arcade holds up his hands in mock submission, cocking a brow at her. She slumps from her rigid stance with a strong, relieved exhale and holds her hand over her chest, as if willing her heart to slow down.

"Make some damn _noise_ next time," she scolds, not without a small grin. She gives him a light punch on the arm. "Sneaking up on a girl like that."

"I thought the _elevator_ would be enough of a warning," he replies with a crooked smile.

"Y'know," Cass calls from where she's seated at the kitchen table, "for someone who deals almost exclusively in mercenary work and single-handedly tracked a man down to Vegas for shooting you in the head, you're pretty jumpy."

"Hey," the Courier says, waving a steady finger at the older woman. "Shut up."

She grabs two bottles of scotch from the door with one hand (sticking her tongue out at Arcade as she nudges the fridge door shut) and the two bottles of vodka that are on the counter with the other. She uses the crook of her elbow to grip the two highball glasses that have already been set out; the top glass is filled with barrel cactus fruits. Arcade raises a curious brow at the unfamiliar setup, but says nothing.

"Did you need something, Arcade?" the Courier asks over her shoulder as she sets it all down on the table. Cass takes the liberty of reaching for the bottles and glasses and begins to do… whatever it is that they're doing. "Or were you just here to harass innocent couriers?"

"Har har. I was actually wondering if we could spare any more medical supplies," he tells her, watching Cass as she uses a combat knife to cut the fruits in halves. She hands the fruit and the knife to the Courier before opening a bottle of scotch and pouring a small amount into each glass.

"What, like RadAway and Med-X, or like surgical equipment?" the Courier asks. She takes the cactus fruit and presses the knife hard against the exposed flesh to squeeze as much of the juices out as she can into the first glass, before repeating the process with the second glass. Once the halves are drained and tossed aside, Cass tops both glasses off with vodka.

"Uh, both, I suppose," the doctor answers after a beat, somewhat intrigued as Cass reaches for an unmarked bottle to her right. She pours the liquid into what little space remains in both glasses with a flourish.

The Courier nods slowly, thoughtfully. "Yeah. We've got plenty, in that trunk over there." She turns her attention to him. "Followers?"

"Followers," he confirms. "I took Veronica to the Mormon Fort to learn a little about what the Followers do, but they're short on supplies."

"Of course they are," she murmurs under her breath. She pulls her long ponytail over her shoulder and starts twisting the ends around her finger. Arcade has noticed that, while she constantly fiddles with her hair, she never moves the thick section that covers the vicious scar on her forehead. He tactfully never mentions it.

"Hey, hey, hey," Cass intervenes, punctuating each word with a loud slap against the table and startling the Courier out of whatever trance she'd been slipping into. She hands the Courier a glass and picks the other one up for herself, offering it up in an expectant toast with a coyly raised brow. "None of that serious shit right now. First one to pass out loses, remember?"

"It's a bet," the Courier agrees with a growing smile, tapping her glass against Cass' with a light _clink_. They both simultaneously take a deep drink. The Courier winces slightly more than Cass at the burn of the alcohol trailing down her throat.

"That's some strong stuff," she wheezes. "Are you ever going to tell me what it is?"

"Nope." Cass just gives her a wide grin from behind the rim of her glass.

"What's going on here?" Arcade asks warily, glancing between the two of them. The Courier simply points at Cass as she eagerly downs another gulp of her drink. Cass rolls her eyes at the younger woman.

"We're going out for a little night on the town later," the caravanner drawls with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

"But with_ heavy _amounts of booze in us, first," the Courier adds. "We made a bet over who could last longer."

Arcade stares at the two of them with a carefully blank expression, considering whether or not he should tell them just how awful the idea sounds. He decides that they probably already know it, so he simply shrugs and says, "I'll match whatever the wager is, put my money on Cass."

The Courier gasps indignantly at the doctor. Cass laughs.

"Smart man," she praises, her words muffled by her already nearly empty glass.

"I know," he replies smoothly. He gives the Courier a comforting pat on the back in response to the offended pout she directs at him. "Anyway, I'm not entirely sure how long it'll be, but we probably won't be back until _very_ early in the morning."

Cass raises her glass to him. "Hopefully, neither will we."

* * *

"Alright, take a seat and roll up your sleeve while I get a first aid kit," Arcade tiredly instructs Veronica, gesturing towards the corner table in the rec room. They got back from Freeside at around 3:30 in the morning, and he's downright _exhausted_ after a full day of work – unlike before, he's actually _dealing _with people now, something completely unprecedented. He finds that he doesn't mind it as much, at least not with the help of Veronica, but the extended amount of social contact only served to further exhaust him.

As he sorts through their stash of medical supplies – stored in a metal trunk in the kitchen – he hears the rumble of the elevator arriving to the floor.

"You two were out for quite some time," he calls warmly, picking out the cleanest looking needle and thread he can find. "Who won?"

There is no response. Instead, he hears the rolling sound of rubber tread on carpet. He looks up at the door and jumps the tiniest bit when he's met with the sight of a Securitron staring at him through the doorway. He tries not to shudder at the militant face that flickers every now and then on the screen as he cautiously stands.

"Uh… can I help you?"

"Your assistance is required at the entrance of the casino," is all the Securitron tells him, in its robotically tinny voice, before it rolls away. Arcade slowly follows it out of the room, meeting Veronica's questioning gaze from where she stands in the doorway of the rec room. He can only give her a small shrug; he doesn't understand it, either. The Securitrons inside the casino never speak to anyone but the Courier. (Aside from the standard automated greetings that they give to any living being that happens to walk by. Arcade's even seen one tell Rex to _enjoy his day at the Lucky 38_.)

"You stay here," he instructs her. "Go ahead and begin sterilizing the wound; I'll be back in a minute."

Much to Arcade's dismay, the Securitron silently waits for him and escorts him into the elevator. As they descend down the tower, he watches the Securitron from the corner of his eye; its metal claws twist and whir and its antenna spins around every now and again and the screen continues to flicker. Arcade wonders briefly what the upgrade _really _did to House's robotic guardsHousedew, because he can't idly pick out any differences besides the change of the face on the screen.

When the elevator doors open again, he steps out as soon as he can into the casino's main floor ahead of the Securitron, only to be met with two more guarding the entrance. They each grip a door handle and simultaneously open the large, heavy doors for him. He feels vaguely important, for a moment, before he remembers that it's all undoubtedly part of House's programming to make going to and from the casino a flourish.

When the doors are finally opened, the only thing he can say is a solid, "What."

On the steps of the Lucky 38 are two unhappy MPs and a Securitron.

In the Securitron's metal arms is a _very_ unconscious Courier.

"Hand her over," one of the MPs grumbles to the robot, which promptly proceeds to unceremoniously dump the young woman's limp body into Arcade's arms, making him scramble to catch her before she could fall and hit the concrete. He huffs at the weight of her – really, it's not a matter of her being heavy so much as it is a matter of him being weak. He shifts her to rest more against his chest and checks to see if she's woken up at the disturbance. She doesn't move, but the fact that she is indeed breathing is enough for him, at the very least.

"What happened?" he asks hesitantly, shifting his gaze from her unconscious face to the two MPs.

"She was causing a public disturbance," the man answers. Arcade looks down at the body in his arms again, looking the Courier over and assessing the damage.

"There are minor burns on her abdomen," he notes in a decidedly neutral tone.

"She was resisting," the MP defends, shifting into a more rigid stance.

"So you _burned_ her with a _cattle prod_?" Arcade asks incredulously, not bothering to stop his voice as it rises. "What in the _world_ could she have done to have warranted that?"

"Well, she sold tire irons to intoxicated couples under the guise of being 'marital aids', started a small fire in a planter using alcohol and a lighter, encouraged several intoxicated NCR soldiers to dance with her in the Ultra-Luxe fountain, handcuffed a Securitron to a fence, and vandalized the monorail," the other MP reports matter-of-factly, as though reading off of a list. Her voice holds a small hint of exasperation, and Arcade allows himself to feel sympathy for her, at least, when he notices her distinct lack of a cattle prod.

"Well, shit," is all he can say in response. He looks down at the Courier's dormant form again and wonders, not without some small amount of amusement, how such a small person could cause so much trouble.

"Yes," the woman agrees with a drawl. "We finally had to stop her when she got into a verbal – and physical altercation – with the Tops crier over his material that she seemed to have misinterpreted as direct insults."

"When she didn't comply with our attempts to subdue her, I followed protocol," the man says, tapping the handle of his holstered cattle prod. Arcade narrows his eyes.

"She's a _5'4"_, unarmed, drunk off her _ass _civilian," Arcade insists, even holding her limp body out to the MP as proof.

"Yeah, well, she packs one hell of a fucking punch," the MP hisses, turning his head to the side. On his jaw is a wide, angry welt that is already beginning to show signs of bruising. Arcade chokes down the urge to laugh at the injury. Even the other MP looks somewhat amused by the evidence.

"She certainly does," the doctor muses. "Well, thank you for bringing her. I'll make sure this doesn't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," the man spits back before sharply turning and walking away. Arcade and the woman share a peculiar look of sympathy for the other before she moves to follow after her fellow MP.

"Wait!" Arcade calls, after a thought occurs late to his slow and tired mind. The woman turns and gives him a quizzical look. "Was there another woman with her?"

The MP frowns thoughtfully. "No, sir, I don't believe there was," she mutters. His eyes narrow in suspicion – where _is _Cass? – but he nods his thanks to her anyway and she leaves.

He sighs down at the unconscious Courier in his arms and takes her inside the protective walls of the Lucky 38.

After he strips the Courier down to her grey undershorts and red blouse, Arcade tucks her into bed. He laughs to himself at the thought of _tucking her into bed _as though she were a sick child and not someone who seems to have an entire war waiting on her.

As an afterthought, he gives her a shot of Med-X and leaves an extra shot on her bedside table next to two chilled bottles of water. Some Fixer is left next to that, too, as a precaution. He stands in the doorway to her bedroom for a moment and shakes his head knowingly at her sleeping form before he shut off the lights and closes her door.

* * *

Cass staggers into the suite at around 4 in the morning. Or something. She isn't sure. She's drunk as all hell, and damn content about it.

She hears voices in the rec room and saunters over, slumping against the doorframe and peering inside. At the corner table sit Arcade and Veronica, chatting lightly as the doctor carefully stitches a gash along the Veronica's forearm.

"I was jumped," Veronica announces upon seeing the older woman.

"That's a pretty fuckin' weird thing to be grinnin' about."

"Kicking the crap out of three thugs and coming out of it with only a few bruises and a scratch is the kind of thing I pride myself on," the younger woman responds happily, lifting her head high.

Arcade sighs and glances up at Cass. "She went through Freeside alone and without a gun while I was helping a patient. At _night_," he explains.

Cass clicks her tongue. "Rookie mistake," she slurs with a solemn shake of her head.

"Tell that to the guys with the smashed-in faces that I wiped the pavement with," Veronica defends with a wider grin.

"Sure," Arcade says with a small smile. He glances up at Cass again briefly and with faux-aloofness. "Missing something?"

The caravanner frowns. "Mm. No. Don't think so."

"You sure?"

She shuts her eyes hard, trying to think beyond the warm wall of alcohol in her system. When she opens them, she has a hard time not just closing them again. She's so fucking tired.

"Yep."

"There's an unconscious woman in the next room over that says otherwise," Arcade informs her with an arched brow. It takes a few more seconds of thoughtful face-scrunching for Cass' eyes to go wide.

"_Ohhhhh_," she laughs, "Oh yeah. I guess I was. Good thing you found her. She lost the bet, that bitch owes me 200 caps." She starts to close her eyes again, leaning her head up against the doorframe. She could probably fall asleep right here and now if it weren't for-

"_Found_ her?" Arcade exclaims, pushing himself back from the table. "She was brought to the damn _doorstep_ by the _military police_! Where the hell were _you?_" He feels like a worried parent, yet again, scolding their child, and damn if it doesn't feel ridiculous.

"Listen, I was with her up until she swindled the Ultra-Luxe out of, like, five-thousand caps. One minute she was with me, next minute – _poof!_ – she was gone. Like a crazy magic trick." She frowns in thought. "At least, I _think _that's when I lost her. It was after she did that awesome spitting fire thing, now _that _was a crazy magic trick for _sure_! You guys should have been there, seriously."

"Five-_thousand_?" Veronica repeats with a gasp. "_Fire-spitting_? God, I can't believe I missed that."

"I know, right?"

"And you didn't bother, I don't know," Arcade rolls his eyes and makes a wild gesture, "_looking for her_?"

"Hey, I swear I looked for like _fifteen _minutes," Cass slurs, holding up five fingers at him. "I got _bored_, so I went to Gomorrah. They have got some _fine_ men there, I'll tell you what. Pretty sure I almost convinced one to take me to his room for _free_."

Veronica laughs. "Now _that _I don't believe."

"It's true!"

"Unbelievable," Arcade mumbles. He can already tell that there's no point in arguing with the drunken caravanner; she's too far gone for him to reach. Instead, he breathes a heavy sigh, shakes his head, and focuses his attention back to the half-finished stitches on Veronica's arm.

* * *

The next day, out of pure curiosity and nothing more, Arcade goes to the Las Vegas Boulevard Station – the monorail, as everyone knows it nowadays. He arrives there just in time to see a group of disgruntled NCR troopers halfway through scrubbing away at the bright red paint on the body of the monorail.

"'_Courier Six Rulez'_," he reads to himself with a suppressed laugh. He thinks of the woman he had to tuck into bed last night because she was too drunk and disorderly for the MPs to handle and promptly got herself _electrocuted_ for it. "Courier Six rules, indeed."

* * *

**A/N: **By the way, the drink from the beginning (minus Cass' secret ingredient) is my Mojave remix of a drink called "King of Poland". The more you know.


End file.
